"I can't give it, and won't give it—if it must come to that," answered Stevens, desperately. "It is you that have the fortune—I am only your banker at this rate. I can't give it to you—I haven't got that much money."
"You must find it then, and pretty quick at that," said McCloskey. "I'm not to be fooled with—I came here for money, and I must and will have it."
"I am willing to do what is reasonable," rejoined Mr. Stevens, in a more subdued tone. "You talk of thousands as most men do of hundreds. I really haven't got it."
"Oh, bother such stuff as that," interrupted McCloskey, incredulously. "I don't believe a word of it—I've asked them that know, and every one says you've made a mint of money by speculation—that since ye sold out in the South and came here to live, there's no end to the money ye've made; so you see it don't do to be making a poor mouth to me. I've come here for a check for five thousand dollars, and shan't go away without it," concluded he, in a loud and threatening tone.
During this conversation, Lizzie Stevens had been standing at the door, momentarily expecting a recall to the apartment. She heard the low rumble of their voices, but could not distinguish words. At length, hearing McCloskey's raised to a higher key, she could no longer restrain her impatience, and gently opening the door, looked into the room. Both their faces were turned in the opposite direction, so that neither noticed the gentle intrusion of Lizzie, who, fearing to leave her father longer alone, ventured into the apartment.
"You need not stand looking at me in that threatening manner. You may do as you please—go tell what you like; but remember, when I fall, so do you; I have not forgotten that affair in Philadelphia from which I saved you—don't place me in a situation that will compel me to recur to it to your disadvantage." "Ah, don't trouble yerself about that, squire; I don't—that is entirely off my mind; for now Whitticar is dead, where is yer witnesses?"
"Whitticar dead!" repeated Stevens.
"Yes; and what's more, he's buried—so he's safe enough, squire; and I shouldn't be at all surprised if you'd be glad to have me gone too."
"I would to God you had been, before I put myself in your power."
"'Twas your own hastiness. When it came to the pinch, I wasn't equal to the job, so ye couldn't wait for another time, but out with yer pistol, and does it yerself." The wretched man shuddered and covered his face, as McCloskey coolly recounted his murder of Mr. Garie, every word of which was too true to be denied.